This Means War
by JaydaMorgana
Summary: One-shot. John talks Sherlock into making a Facebook profile - what could possibly go wrong? Complete and utter crack.


_**A/N: Inspired by a conversation on tumblr regarding whether or not Sherlock and John have Facebook accounts ... and what sort of pranks and such ensue on said accounts (because you **_**know**_** that has to happen). Think John's blog, but even more embarrassing ...**_

* * *

><p>"Come on, Sherlock, everyone is doing it."<p>

"Since when has that ever been an incentive for me to do anything?"

"But think of how _connected_ you'll be with the world, y'know? I mean, nobody reads that blog of yours, so-oh, sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean to say that. What I mean is, everyone would kill to read your status updates. As long as they don't have to do with tobacco ash ..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am not going to get a Facebook page. It's superficial and unnecessary to my line of work, not to mention half the people who would 'friend request' me are downright irritating."

John shrugged. "Well, it was worth a shot ..." he said, a strange lilt to his voice. "Guess you won't be able to butt your snarky arse in and comment on everyone's photos-"

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and John promptly realized he'd said the wrong thing. "Erm-any chance you'll ignore what I just said?"

"Nope," Sherlock said, turning to his laptop with a wicked grin. He began typing his information into the Facebook homepage, snickering under his breath.

"Damn," John muttered, wondering what had ever possessed him to be so daft.

* * *

><p>Sherlock furrowed his brows over his newsfeed. Facebook was practically demanding that he add a profile picture, or else. This was it. This was the ultimate test. Whichever picture Sherlock chose would be the one that, well, defined him as a person. Everyone would know him by that image.<p>

He scrolled through his phone. There were several pictures of him with John, several of particularly gruesome crime scenes, and (dare he admit it) a few selfies. Well, okay, a _lot_ of selfies. Sherlock chose one of those that didn't particularly look like what it was (meaning, no awkward angles or arm-holding-the-phone-and-therefore-in-the-way shots), with a shrug. It was just a stupid online profile, after all - what did it matter?

The next step: who to friend? Sherlock could only think of four people he'd honestly want to see updates from - John, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He requested all of them, promptly returning to his profile page to decide on a good cover photo.

Within moments, a friend request popped up. Sherlock stiffened, clicking on the icon tentatively. Who in God's name-?

_Anderson_. Oh, God. The man had been obsessed with him ever since his 'death', and there seemed to be no stopping the man. Sherlock accepted the request begrudgingly.

_It's not as though I'll ever use this stupid profile anyway,_ he reasoned._  
><em>

Within moments, Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson had accepted his requests. That left John.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed.

"Yes?" John said, popping his head out of the kitchen.

"Accept my friend request."

"No."

"Do it. Now."

"Nope."

"Why _not?_"

"Because you're being a berk and you've threatened to comment rude things on my photos. Not gonna happen. Sorry."

"_John_."

"Hey, I thought you didn't care about Facebook?"

"I don't. But it would look strange if you weren't my friend on here, wouldn't it?"

"Who's going to care?"

"John!" Sherlock practically begged. "I just did a desperate thing: I accepted Anderson's friend request. I cannot be friends with Anderson and not you. I'll go insane."

"No one said you had to make a profile."

"You said."

"And how can I argue with such astute reasoning?" John said with a smirk. "Fine, then, I'll accept it. Just give me a bloody minute."

* * *

><p>Upon glancing through John's profile, Sherlock couldn't help but snort. The man was literally obsessed with posting photos and statuses - of the most pointless things, too. There were several posts of him with Lestrade, drinks in hand. <em>Night out with an old friend! Fun times!<em> he'd written, eloquent as ever. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Enough with the exclamation points,_ Sherlock wrote. _We get it, you're excited. Who wouldn't be, in the holy presence of Geoff?_

Sherlock continued in this manner, writing snarky things on John's wall, photos, and so on. Within ten minutes of logging off for the day, he heard an exasperated groan coming from John's room.

"Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God-" John began, storming out of the room. Suddenly, a wicked grin appeared on his face. "Oh, you'll pay, Sherlock. You'll pay."

Sherlock actually shuddered. There was, after all, nothing scarier than a smiling John, especially when the smile was _that_ wide and toothy.

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't log on to Facebook until the next day, when he found, to his disturbance, a picture John had tagged him in. Of him. Curled up, asleep. With a spot of drool on his pillow.<p>

Oh, _hell_ no.

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed. "What is the meaning of this!?"

"You asked for it!" John shouted back, hooting with laughter. "And that's why you don't mess with John Watson!" He cackled evilly. "Read the comments!"

Sherlock did just that. There were all sorts of comments from Mrs. Hudson and Molly ("Awww! Oooh!") and derisive laughter from Lestrade (literally a "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH OH GOD HAHA"), among others. Oh, God - even Anderson had commented! Sherlock didn't have the stomach to read what he'd written ... and he'd apparently written a lot.

"John Watson, why would you _ever_ think doing such a thing is okay? I have a reputation to uphold, an _image!_" Sherlock was angry, but not _that_ angry. A bit of a snorting laugh crept into his voice as he snapped. No. He couldn't allow this. He was angry. _Very_ angry. Grrr.

"I'm deleting my profile," he said, over the sounds of John's laughter.

"The picture won't go away ..." John warned.

"Then I'm hacking into your account and deleting it myself."

"Not a chance. I've taken precautions. Security's at a maximum."

"What can I do to make you get rid of the picture?"

"Delete your comments."

"All of them?"

"_All_ of them."

"But ... but ..."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I cannot believe I am in a situation where I need to use your full name, but more importantly, I cannot believe I am talking to a thirty-five year-old man as though he's an infant! Oh, wait, I _can_ believe it ... because it's you!" John snorted with even more laughter. "Sherlock Holmes, the overgrown sulky baby."

"Enough, enough!" Sherlock groaned. "I'll delete the comments. How many were there, fifty?"

"Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven goddamn notifications, all from you."

Sherlock sighed. He'd made his bed, and now he had to lie in it.

* * *

><p>About a week after the photograph leak, Sherlock received a notification about being tagged in a photo. Shit. John hadn't kept up his end of the bargain. Not that there'd been a bargain. But Sherlock felt their agreement not to embarrass each other went without saying.<p>

It turned out that it wasn't John, however, but his mother. Oh, Christ. He knew what was coming ...

_Baby pictures._

There he was, a year old, all ringlet curls and poopy diapers, a big, silly grin on his face. Sherlock cringed as much as was physically possible. Apparently, his flatmate hadn't been the real problem. Now he had bigger things to deal with - and he wouldn't dare cross Mummy for anything. It was indeed a predicament.

Sherlock cursed himself for the umpteenth time for getting a Facebook account. And yet, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to delete it. There was something addictive in it, something Sherlock didn't particularly like ... but he couldn't seem to get away. He'd caved in and made a profile, and now there was no going back.

But hey, as long as Anderson didn't see the baby pictures, all would be fine. Or at least as long as he didn't comment. Or bring it up at the Yard. But Sherlock knew he would. He sat up, straightened his shoulders, and braced himself for the inevitable jokes that were to come.


End file.
